


So the Skies Opened up (and Drowned Us All)

by kuragay



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Angst, Anxiety, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Non-Graphic Rape/Non-Con, Panic Attacks, Rape Aftermath, Rape Recovery, Suicidal Thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-29
Updated: 2016-12-29
Packaged: 2018-09-13 05:24:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,586
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9108373
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kuragay/pseuds/kuragay
Summary: It doesn't always happen in a dark alley.Or, the one where the unthinkable occurs in a hotel in Barcelona, and Yuuri struggles through the aftermath.Viktor just wants Yuuri to heal.





	

**Author's Note:**

> If you're uncomfortable/triggered by rape/non-con elements, please don't this. This is, after all, a rape recovery fic. I've wanted to read one for this fandom for the longest time, but I can't seem to find any, so naturally, I wrote one.  
> Enjoy this roller coaster of 12k words. I'll see you on the other side!

It doesn’t always happen in a dark alley.

 

Yuuri sits in the hotel room, making sure that all the suitcases are packed as he waits for Viktor to get back. The Russian went for a walk twenty minutes ago to cure his hangover, and as much as a walk with Viktor on the streets of Barcelona before their departure would be nice, Yuuri’s a bit too exhausted for the banquet the night before to bother. He didn’t even drink that much. Two glasses at most. Mostly because he actually wanted to remember the night, and also because he would rather not pole dance again. Although, thinking back, Yuuri’s pretty sure that Viktor wouldn’t have minded.

Sighing, he rolls his shoulders and stretches his arms above his head, feeling the chill of the early morning hit the exposed skin of his stomach as his T shirt lifts. It really is a nice morning. The sound of cars, birds, and the ocean. The sky is painted cerulean, not a cloud in sight.

There’s a knock on the door, and Yuuri smiles, going over to answer it with a greeting on his lips. Only, as he opens the door, it isn’t Viktor. It’s one of the hotel staff, white shirt, black pants. He’s tall—taller than Yuuri, and lanky.

“Hello,” Yuuri greets in English, a little surprised.

The staff member returns the greeting. “Service?” He asks, which is strange because it’s seven in the morning, and no hotel Yuuri’s ever stayed at before dispatched room service this early.

“Oh,” Yuuri blinks, also noting that the staff member doesn’t have the regular trolley. Perhaps it’s further down the hall? “No thank you.”

The staff member fidgets, than fidgets some more, and then walks into the room.

Startled, Yuuri takes a step back. “Uh, sorry. Maybe you can come back later?” He suggest because he has no idea what’s going on. Is it a cultural barrier? Why is the staff member in Yuuri and Viktor’s room?

“Sorry,” the staff member apologizes, staring unblinkingly at Yuuri. His eyes are green, and Yuuri wishes he was better at reading people. Blank, green eyes, mouth twisting downwards. “I—”

The staff member takes another step into the room, then closes the door behind him. Locks it. Turns back to Yuuri.

It’s eerie, and creepy, and Yuuri finds himself taking another step back, trying to calm his heartbeat. He wipes his palms on his pants and swallows before laughing awkwardly. “Um…sorry. You’re making me uncomfortable. Can you please leave the room?” Maybe it’s rude for Yuuri to say it so bluntly, but his anxiety is spiking. And if it’s a cultural difference, he can die of shame later. For now, he just wants the other man to _leave._

“Sorry. I—” The man repeats, and then he lurches forward, tackling Yuuri to the floor.

And Yuuri’s pretty sure now that it’s _not_ a cultural thing, and that the staff member is indeed being weird and creepy. Yelping, Yuuri tries to push the larger man off, but his weight is crushing. Even for such a thin guy.

“Please, get off,” Yuuri gasps, mind whirling because he’s blanking out. He doesn’t want to even fathom what’s happening, and it’s bewildering and disorienting, and he’s scared.

When the man starts grinding on him, Yuuri nearly throws up.

He’s not stupid. It’s pretty clear what the other’s motive is by now, and Yuuri struggles harder, kicking his legs up, flailing his arms. He opens his mouth to scream, but the other male stuffs his fist into Yuuri’s mouth.

“Shut up,” the man says, quietly. His voices isn’t rough. In fact, it’s very soft, accented, shy. A heavy contrast with his actions and what he’s saying.

Yuuri bites down on the man’s fist as hard as he can, and the fist is wrenched from his mouth. “Help,” he cries, desperate before his head is whipped to the side from the force of a slap.

Something is being shoved into his mouth again. A cloth of some sort with a foul stench, touching the back of his throat. Dirty socks.

_There are dirty socks in my mouth._

His throws his body to the side, gagging, desperately trying to wiggle out, but the other man pins him down, pinching his wrists so hard to the floor that he’s sure they're going to bruise.

“Stop,” Yuuri tries to scream, but the socks do their job and muffle him to the point where he chokes on his words instead.

There are hands going up his shirt. Hands feeling up his body, and Yuuri’s stomach lurches over and over and over as he tries not to sob.

He doesn’t want to give the man on top of him the satisfaction of seeing him cry. Green eyes, still blank, and hands touching Yuuri almost methodically. Like a robot. The man moans, and Yuuri tries to scream again.

It’s like screaming underwater.

Drool starts to dribble out the side of his mouth, and the socks are slowly dampening, and it’s fowl. It’s so gross, and Yuuri tries to throw the man off him again and again and again, and _how can this be happening?_

His shirt is taking off, then his pants, and he’s left on the floor in just his boxers, his body being slowly squished from the heavy weight on top of him. He hears the sound of pants unzipping, and his stomach lodges in his throat in horror. _No. Stop. No no no no no no no._

“Please. Stop,” he chokes. The words are so distorted that their barely words at all. And even when his hands are free, his pummeling of the man on top of him does no good.

The floor chafes his bare skin, burning him every time his body moves. Forced to move against his will as the man grinds him into the floor.

_Stop stop stop stop stop stop stop stop._

How can this be possibly happening? Surely it’s not real. He’s in his hotel room. His _hotel room._ Not a fucking alleyway. Not some shady club. He’s not drunk, or drugged. It’s not some _thug_ about to violate him. It’s a _hotel worker_.

“Stop. Stop. Please.” It’s repetitive, and utterly ineffective, but Yuuri doesn’t know what else to do. His phone isn’t anywhere near him. The man on top is bigger, stronger, and he’s so scared. The terror, the horror, is eating him away. A hand reaches into his boxers, touching his skin, and Yuuri _screams_ as loud as he can, hollering through the socks.

“It’s fine,” the man on top of him says, body rocking against Yuuri’s, a breathy moan coming out of his lips. “You’ll like it.”

_You’ll like it, you’ll like it, you’lllikeityou’lllikeityou’lllikeit._

_Nononononononononono. Please, nononononono. Stop. No. Stop. I can’t breathe. Stop. Stop, stop, stop. I’m begging you. Beggingbeggingbegging. I don’t want this. Stopstopstopstop._

Every word Yuuri manages to get out is ignored.

He thinks of Viktor. Silver hair, glinting in the sunlight. Blue eyes bluer than the sky is, bluer than anything Yuuri’s ever seen. He can feel the golden ring sitting heavily on his fingers, and it’s the worst kind of pain.

And as Yuuri’s slowly torn apart, he thinks of Viktor’s kindness. He thinks of love, and he feels himself cry.

 

He is left with the broken pieces of his body. Blood and something else painting flowers on his thighs. He can’t pick himself up off the floor, so he just lies there, feeling the tears falling down his cheeks. Still tasting the socks, even though they’re not in his mouth anymore. 

And he finds that his body may be broken, but his mind is shattered.

 

He can’t let Viktor know.

 

_Quick. Quick. Get up before he walks in on you. Get up before he sees. Get up. Get up, getupgetupgetup._

His body doesn’t listen. It folds on the floor, and Yuuri manages to pull his boxers up before his arms are shaking too much to do anything else.

 

The lock clicks, and the door is opening, and there’s a quiet shuffle, a startle gasp. “Yuuri.” Gentle footsteps. “What are you doing on the fl—?”

The words are caught in Viktor’s throat. He’s probably close enough to see the damage, and Yuuri can’t bring himself to turn over. He’s on his side, curled up because any other position hurts. And his eyes are shut tight. He doesn’t dare open them. If he opens them, it’ll be more real.

“Yuuri.” It’s a gasp really, escaping the older male, and he feels cold hands touching his wrists, tracing the marks no doubt left by the…man. “What happened?” He touches Yuuri’s cheeks, and Yuuri finally opens his eyes because it’s getting too hard to keep them closed. Viktor’s right there, kneeling next to him, wiping the tears off his cheeks.

“Stay still, alright?” Viktor’s hands are trembling, and Yuuri wants so badly to hold them so that they stop. But his hands are trembling even more, and everything aches, so he doesn’t. He just blinks again.

“Viktor,” he croaks, his throat sore.

“I’m going to call an ambulance.” Viktor, despite his shaking, takes Yuuri’s hands. Carefully, so carefully, and Yuuri lets him. “Where does it hurt?”

How can Yuuri answer that? It hurts everywhere. His pride, his heart, his arms, legs, pelvis, back, and the part that he can’t even bring himself to think. Because he’s embarrassed, and childish, and it’s not the time to be embarrassed, but he can’t help it. He feels so…unclean.

Yuuri doesn’t answer, and Viktor gently strokes his hair, talking on the phone in quiet tones. Yuuri hears the words, understands the words, but they go through one ear and out the other. Something about assault. Something about the address of the hotel and their hotel room. Something, something, something.

He doesn’t want to think right now, so he focuses on Viktor’s fingers through his hair, and the gentle hum of his breathing. “The ambulance will be here soon,” Viktor informs.

It’s strange to be touched by Viktor after being touched by that man. And a small part of Yuuri wants to shy away, but a bigger part finds comfort and reassurance, so he listens to the bigger part. Viktor is safe.

Viktor is home.

Yuuri’s heartbeat that was beating terrifyingly fast before starts to settle, and he feels the tremors working through his body slowing down.

“Viktor,” he tries again, voice a little better.

“I’m here,” the Russian soothes. “I’m right here.”

Yuuri wants to say something. He really, really does. But he doesn’t know how to say it right, and the words aren’t coming to him, so he settles for repeating Viktor’s name, over and over like a mantra.

There’s no reason to be afraid anymore. Yuuri knows. (He’s afraid anyway).

 

The paramedics arrive. Everything still hurts, but it’s less scary with Viktor there, holding his hand.

 

Rape kit?

_Yes._

Press charges?

_Yes._

Do you know who did it?

_A hotel worker._

Name?

_He wasn’t wearing a name tag._

Description?

_Tall, thin, dark hair, green eyes, soft voice, jittery, painfulpainfulstopstopstop._

We’re going to need a sample. Is that alright?

_Yes. Take it. Take all of it. I don’t want him on me. Get it off._

You’re very brave for doing this.

_No._

Everything’s going to be fine.

_Is it really?_

You’re very lucky to have such a loving partner.

_I know. I know. You don’t have to tell me. I love him so much. So much. Sometimes I think he deserves better._

We’re going to do some tests on you now to make sure you’re alright, and then you can go home, alright? Some of them might be uncomfortable, but it’s for your safety.

_Okay. That’s fine. Thank you._

We’ll send the results over to your regular hospital in Japan for your convenience. Everything’s fine. You’re okay. You don’t have to worry about anything.

_Okay. Thank you. Okayokayokay. Yes, everything’s fine._

They are on the plane back to Japan, and Yuuri can’t sleep. He can still feel the hands on him, even though he’s been thoroughly wiped down. He can still feel the traces of that man, seeping deep into the pores of his skin, poisoning his blood.

Viktor’s asleep, and they’re using each other like pillows. Hands intertwined. A bit warm and clammy, and Yuuri tries not to mind the feeling of being touched.

He wonders what Viktor’s feeling. If he’s secretly disgusted every time he touches Yuuri, knowing another man’s touched him too. Which is ridiculous. The thought is completely unfathomable, but Yuuri fathoms it anyway. His brain is funny like that.

Their matching rings are visible, brilliant, beautiful, and they're painful to look at because Yuuri can’t help but feel like he doesn’t deserve to wear it anymore. Which is really just another one of his ridiculous thoughts that Viktor would be sure to placate. But Viktor’s asleep.

Except, he’s not. Because he sits up, running a hand through his light hair, and blinks the grogginess from his eyes. “Yuuri. Are you okay?” He asks.

“Huh? Oh, yes.” He rubs the ring self-consciously, aware that Viktor’s eyes are following his every movement.

“Do you want to talk about it?”

“Not on a plane full of people.”

Viktor’s eyes are sad and concerned, but he rubs his thumb over Yuuri’s knuckles and nods. “Of course. Just know that I’m all ears.”

Yuuri smiles gratefully, leaning into Viktor. “I know. Thank you.”

He knows that he’s going to have to see a therapist when he gets back. The hospital recommended it, and Viktor recommended it, and Yuuri knows it’s not a bad idea.

But the idea of talking to someone else about it makes the apple he managed to force down earlier come up. There’s no way he can talk about it. Not without feeling those hands on him again. Not without feeling that man _inside_ him again, tearing him apart.

Tearing everything apart.

He’s shaking again, and he doesn’t even realize it until Viktor puts a hand on his leg, gently easing him into a fragile calm. “It’s okay. You’re safe,” Viktor whispers once Yuuri starts to cry. Silent tears collecting at the corners of his eyes that he wipes away before they fall.

His nose is already getting congested with snot, and the waterworks haven’t even really started yet.

Tenderly, Viktor brings a wad of tissues to Yuuri’s nose, and Yuuri blows, sagging against the seat once he’s done. The entire emotional thing is exhausting. It’s not like Yuuri’s not used to being emotional. He’s always been an anxious wreck unless he’s drunk or drowning in Viktor. But now it’s so much worse.

Now it’s like swimming through oil, his limbs slow and sluggish, shaking from effort. Everything’s heavy, and dark, and scary. And alone. Even with Viktor there, it’s lonely.

 

It hurts to sit for too long.

Yuuri has to get up from the plane seats after a while, and he walks up and down the corridor until a flight attendant tells him to sit because there’s bad turbulence. So he does, because it hurts to walk too. When he goes to the washroom, there’s a splotch of blood on his undergarments, and he feels himself start to cry again. Feels everything building again. But he forces it down, because he’s just there to go the washroom and nothing else.

He goes back to Viktor on shaky legs, trying not to stumble with every bump of the plane. Yuuri has the aisle seat so that he can stand up whenever he pleases, but Viktor shuffles over to give him more room anyway. He sits down and pretends that he doesn’t feel the sharp, sudden pain. Pretends that he doesn’t wince.

Viktor notices anyway. Of course he does. He’s Viktor, and he’s always, always looking out for Yuuri. Caring about Yuuri. Caring too much, probably.

“Does it hurt?” Viktor asks, hands reaching out, silently asking to touch Yuuri.

Yuuri grants him permission, letting Viktor rub slow circles into the palm of his hand. Tentatively, Yuuri eases back until his spine hits the back of the seat, riding through the pain, letting it pass through his body is slow, horrible waves. “Yes,” he replies.

Viktor digs in his pocket and gets out the bottle of ibuprofen, shaking out two pills. “Here, love.” He puts them into Yuuri’s palms, but Yuuri returns them, shaking his head.

“I want the sleeping ones,” he mutters.

Viktor puts the ibuprofen back into the bottle and exchanges it for the zolpidem, which Yuuri swallows gratefully. “Better?” Viktor asks, and Yuuri nods, leaning his head back onto the seat and letting go of Viktor’s hand. It’s not as comfortable as leaning of Viktor, but Yuuri suddenly doesn’t want to touch anyone. He hopes Viktor doesn’t mind, and isn’t hurt by the sudden distance because the last thing he wants to do is hurt the older male.

Thankfully, Viktor’s understanding, and leans back in his seat as well, closing his eyes. Their thighs are still brushing, and Viktor’s calming breaths breeze through Yuuri’s mind. “Don’t think too much, okay?”

“Okay.” Yuuri thinks too much anyway, clenching his fists into his lap, and tries not to move excessively because ever fidget brings a new wave of pain.

_When will it stop hurting?_

His wrists are still bruised, and every time his sleeves lift a little, he sees the marks and feels a little more ill. Reminders of what happened litter his body, and he wants them gone. He wants them to disappear. He wants them to never have been there in the first place.

“You’re shaking again.” It’s Viktor’s voice, breaking through his bubble, tearing Yuuri’s eyes away from his wrists.

“Oh.” Yuuri’s indeed shaking again, legs bouncing, arms tensing. “Sorry.”

“You don’t have anything to apologize for.” The arm bar between them is lifted—has been lifted since the moment they sat down—giving uninterrupted access to each other, and Yuuri lets Viktor take his hand again. “Are you drowsy yet?”

“A little. I think the pills are kicking in.” It usually takes twenty or so minutes to work, but sometimes it’s faster and sometimes it’s slower. His body is slowly relaxing, and Viktor begins to rub circles into his hands again.

The airplane is stuffy, and very cold, and Yuuri wants nothing more than to cuddle up to Viktor. But every time he thinks about it, his chests tightens, and he wheezes a little more because he’s so _afraid._ He’s afraid to be rejected, even though he knows that’s an impossibility, but he’s also afraid that he’s going to be scared of Viktor’s touch. He’s afraid of how he’ll react to the situation.

It’s easier when Viktor initiates the contact, because then Yuuri can either accept or deny it. But initiating contact himself has suddenly become a lot harder to do.

When sleep takes him, Yuuri’s not pressed up against Viktor like how he wishes to be. Instead, his back is pressed against the cold seat, and the only things lulling him away are the sleeping pills bleeding into his brain.

 

When Yuuri and Viktor return home, Yuuri doesn’t talk to anyone. Instead, he breezes past the concerned gazes of his family and heads to the washroom, trying to pretend that he’s not limping, and that not everything hurts (he can’t fool himself, despite his efforts). Viktor goes to follow him, but Yuuri locks the door.

He feels bad about it, of course he does, but he’s also too desperate to care much, his mind spinning into an abyss completely out of his control.

There’s no way he’s taking a bath because it’ll just feel like he’s bathing in everything. Bathing in the pieces of his fragmented mind, and the layer of filth left on his body.

Instead, he runs the shower, turning the water as hot as it’ll go. He takes off his clothes, avoiding the mirror because he doesn’t want to see. Because avoiding is what Yuuri does best, and because he’s a coward. He jumps into the shower, not bothering to adjust the temperature, but yelping anyway when the scalding water comes in contact with his battered skin. He doesn’t lower the temperature though. Instead, he lets the pain focus him, scrubbing harshly at his arms and legs. His hair, his face, his neck, behind his ears. He’s especially rough with the inside of his mouth. Trying to get the taste out. _Get it out. Please, get it out._ It’s no use, and every time he smacks his lips, he tastes soiled socks.

_Don’t throw up. Don’t throw up._

He throws up anyway, knees bending to hit the shower floor, retching as the water carries his sick down the drain, leaving the taste of acid on his tongue. Shaking hands wipe at his mouth, and the water is so _, so hot. It’s burning. It’s fire._ So hot that it’s cold, turning every inch of his body an angry red.

Or maybe that’s from the scrubbing.

His nails drag down his arms once he stands up again, digging into the bruises on his wrists, trying to gauge the marks out because he hates them, all the while knowing that it’s futile. There’s bruising on his legs, his stomach, and his back is floor-burned. Yuuri hisses through the sting, and tells himself it’s nothing. But even the littlest of painful things will continue to hurt, especially when he scrubs lower, trying to be as thorough as he can because, even under the hammering water, he still feels dirty. A smudge permanently imprinted deep inside where no scrubbing can reach.

The salt of tears coats his tongue as he licks his cracking lips, and he tells himself it doesn’t matter. He deserves to cry. He deserves to let go, after hours and hours of struggling and failing to hold it together. In the echoes of the washroom, where no one else can see him, Yuuri opens his chest and bleeds his sorrows dry.

 

Viktor and Yuuri come to the decision to move to Russia to train. Really, they came to the decision right after the medal ceremony. It’s easier, for Viktor to be a competitor and a coach, if they do it in Russia. They don’t plan to spend much time in Hasetsu before moving, and there’s so much to do before then.

So Yuuri packs, numbing himself so he doesn’t start crying again, and Viktor’s a constant, comforting presence.

“Bring that suit,” Viktor says. “Yeah. That one.”

And Yuuri says, “You look really good in that shirt.” So Viktor packs the shirt.

It’s a sense of normalcy, and it helps calm the hurricane raging in Yuuri’s head. The domestic dynamic makes it easier to breathe.

“You told the parents we’re moving, right?” Yuuri asks quietly, folding a pair of pants.

Smiling, Viktor looks over, and nods. His smile, Yuuri notes, looks a bit strained, and the guilt settles in like a dull brick.

The thing about Viktor is that he has multiple smiles, but he only means half of them, and Yuuri can’t tell which one this is. And it must be because of him, right? After the…incident, Yuuri knows he’s been distant, and it must be terribly painful for Viktor. And it’s Yuuri’s fault, and Yuuri’s to blame, just like everything and everything and everything and—

A hand settles on his shoulder, light, barely there, and Yuuri’s thoughts come to a halt.

“Shhh,” Viktor hushes as a violent sob rips through Yuuri’s body before he can stop it. Before he even processes what’s really happening. “It’s okay.” A gentle whisper. “You’re going to be okay.”

Taking a gasping breath, he leans into Viktor, letting the arms surround him, pulling him closer until he pressed tight against Russian’s chest. This contact is alright. Yuuri can live with it. It’s not destructive, and it doesn’t make him want to run away until he disappears. It doesn’t make him want to scream.

A hand is pressed to his spine, holding him like he’s about to fall apart. And it truly, truly feels like he is. “I can’t stop remembering,” Yuuri gasps, tasting the bitter tears and his stomach churns.

Viktor looks pained, brows furrowed and lips twisted. “I wish I could make you forget. I wish I could go back in time, and not leave the hotel room, and just spend that morning with you.”

This, Yuuri realizes, is Viktor’s guilt, and it only makes the tears come faster and he grabs Viktor’s shoulders as hard as he can, so hard that Viktor winces. “It’s not your fault.” He needs Viktor to know that. He can’t let Viktor live with the guilt of the ‘ _should’ve’_ and the ‘ _could’ve’_ s because, knowing Viktor, it will destroy him. “Please, please don’t think that.” He’s shaking, and Viktor’s shaking, and Yuuri’s voice is cracking under the desperation.

Slowly, and carefully, Viktor pries Yuuri’s trembling hands off, smiling warmly, tenderly, as he kisses each and every one of his fingers. “Alright.” A simple word, sincere as can be. “Thank you. I think I really needed to hear that.”

Yuuri realizes, with a sinking heart, that being hurt doesn’t just affect him, but also the people who love him. Of course he knew that before, but there’s a difference between knowing and experiencing, and experiencing Viktor hurt by Yuuri’s pain makes it all the more real.

“I’m sorry.” He chokes on it. “I’m sorry. So, so sorry.” The words are bitter in his mouth, leaving the taste of ash with the aftertaste of _dirty, disgusting_ socks. He wonders if he’ll be tasting socks for the rest of his life. Pulling away from Viktor, he stands up, stretching out his legs that have started to cramp from kneeling too long, and he forces his lips to turn up into a smile before Viktor can try to quell his apologies like he always does. “Let’s just finish packing, okay?”

The smile, Yuuri notes, tastes bitter too.

 

After their eight day in Hasetsu, there’s a phone call from the hospital. Mari picks it up, saying something too quiet for Yuuri to hear, and her eyebrows scrunch together in confusion.

“Yuuri, it’s for you.” She holds the phone out, and Yuuri takes it, trying not to drop it because everything has suddenly gotten very blurry.

His heartbeat is apparently trying to race against something, and the familiar anxiety greets him like an old friend. _Go away,_ he hisses, _I don’t want you here._ Naturally, it doesn’t work, but it makes him feel a little more in control.

“Hello?” He answers, voice too high and too unsteady.

“Katsuki-san, your test results have arrived and been forwarded to us. We’ve been notified that you would like to know them?”

He swallows, throat suddenly very, very dry, and licks his lips. “Yes.” He sounds and feels strangled, invisible hands reaching around his throat, holding him like a vice.

Viktor walks into the room, and Mari stops him, striking up conversation. Yuuri doesn’t know what they’re talking about, too caught up in trying not to let the black spots in front of his eyes turn into black holes. He’s holding his breath, and he knows he should breathe. He knows, yet he seems to have forgotten how.

It’s taking too long. _Why is it taking so long?!_ Something must be terribly, terribly wrong if it’s taking so long to respond. One by one, every single possibility flits through Yuuri’s mind, and he tells himself that it doesn’t matter if he’s contracted something. That it’s not the end of the world. And he knows it’s not, but it’ll be another obstacle and another reminder of what’s taken place. And he doesn’t know if he’ll be able to survive that, constantly thinking about what that man did.

Because he already thinks about it every time he goes to the washroom to the sight of more blood. And he thinks about it every time he showers, every time he accidentally glances in the mirror and catches sight of the healing marks and bruises. Thinks about it every time he wakes up, and every time he lies next to Viktor at night, too afraid to reach out. Too afraid to touch or be touched. Thinks about it every time the nightmares rouse him, mouth open in a silent scream. Thinks about it every time he looks into Viktor’s eyes and sees the poorly hidden helplessness. Because he knows that Viktor doesn’t know how to help him.

His chest is so tight he feels like he might burst, static roaring in his ears. He can barely make out any sound. He can barely even stand.

“Your results are all negative.”

The static silences, and Yuuri breathes.

 

“You should tell your family,” Viktor says while they wash the dishes together.

“I know.”

They leave it at that.

 

His entire family sits around the table, enjoying the meal that Yuuri’s picking at. He looks up, and no one knows what he’s about to say except for Viktor. They’re all oblivious, eating and talking and laughing like usual, congratulating Yuuri on his silver medal because they haven’t stopped doing it since the moment he and Viktor got back.

 _“My son’s all grown up,”_ his mother weeps.

 _“I can’t believe he’s moving out,”_ his father laments.

Viktor joins in, fitting into conversation after conversation like he’s born to do it. But his legs are pressed against Yuuri’s the entire time, and when Yuuri takes Viktor’s hand to ease his anxiety, there’s always squeeze in response.

Only Mari is silent, observing Yuuri with hard eyes. “Something’s wrong,” she finally says after Yuuri fails for the umpteen time to bring up what he wants to say.

The conversation pauses.

Everyone turns to Mari, and Yuuri’s hear rate accelerates.

“Yuuri’s not eating, he keeps looking like he’s about to cry, and Viktor’s all shifty-eyed. And also, I got a call from the hospital the other day asking for Yuuri.”

Oh. Oh no. This isn’t how Yuuri wanted to bring it up at all. But the silence is gradually growing thicker and thicker, the room getting tenser and tenser, and Yuuri’s mom sits up straighter. “Yuuri, is something wrong that you’re not telling us?”

“I—” Ah. The familiar strangled voice, because apparently Yuuri can’t talk normally.

“You don’t have to if you’re not ready,” Viktor cuts in, voice low. And Yuuri knows he’s concerned, and he hates himself a little more for worrying the person he loves.

And because now the entire family is worried, Yuuri knows he can’t stay silent. Even though it feels like he’s drowning in quicksand. Even though there’s a knife lodged in his throat.

“There was…an incident,” he starts, haltingly. “…In Barcelona…and something really, really bad happened.”

 

Oh, he’s crying. _Well_ , Yuuri sighs, even as he continues to talk through the tears _, that’s nothing new._

 

The faces around him get gradually dimmer, and his mother is crying too. He wants to reach out and wipe away her tears, but he’s so tired. So he keeps talking because he knows that if he stops, he won’t be able to start again.

 

Ah, everyone’s crying now. Deep in his head, a voice whispers, _look what you’ve done._

 

And Yuuri whispers back, _I never meant to hurt anyone._

_My fault, my fault, my fault._

He thinks that Viktor’s crying hurts him the most, and for a second he wonders if this is how Viktor feels every time Yuuri breaks down. And wonders why Viktor sticks around if all Yuuri brings is pain.

But then Viktor’s holding Yuuri’s hand again, saying, _“You deserve the world, and I wish I could give it to you.”_ And, _“I’m so sorry I wasn’t there. So, so sorry.”_ And also, _“I love you. I love you so much. More than I’ve ever loved anyone.”_

And _oh,_ this must be why Viktor stays. Because, as much as Yuuri hates himself, he forgets that it’s not the same for everyone else. Because Viktor loves him, and maybe Yuuri makes him happy. Even though it’s boggling for Yuuri to think about himself making anyone happy.

Less boggling after he met Viktor, but boggling all the same.

 

After Yuuri’s done talking, there’s a lot of talk about support. And his parents want him to stay in Hasetsu, but Yuuri politely declines.

There’s also a lot emotions and unexpected hugging. But it’s also not entirely unpleasant. Touch is something different now, and he hates when he has to pull away. He hates that his skin crawls sometimes, even though he knows that the people touching him will never hurt him. But it’s also so warm, wrapped in someone’s arms.

In the time span from Barcelona to Japan, Yuuri’s forgotten the feeling of gentle touches from anyone but Viktor. And as his family frets over him, and as Viktor sits closer, Yuuri smiles. So this, _this is love._

 

“When we get to Russia, we’ll find someone you can talk to. Someone who speaks Japanese.”

Yuuri’s glances up at Viktor, feelings his heartbeat pulse beneath his fingers as they lie in bed. They aren’t touching, but they’re so close that they might as well be, breathing in the same air.

“It’ll be easier to find someone who speaks English.”

“I know,” Viktor responds, already embraced by fatigue. They spent the entire day at the Ice Castle, not to practice, but rather to unwind, and Yuuri sometimes forgets that not everyone has his stamina. “But I know you’re more comfortable speaking Japanese, and I want you to be comfortable.”

Yuuri doesn’t know how to describe this feeling. This tenderness. This endearment. He looks at Viktor’s drooping eyes, long, pale lashes casting shadows on his cheeks in the warm lighting of the dark room, and Yuuri’s so in love it hurts. So in love that he doesn’t know what to do with himself, because no one’s ever said something like that to him.

 _Comfortable._ Viktor wants him to be comfortable. Viktor wants him to be happy. And it’s such an innocent, touching gesture, spoken in moments of twilight and sleep with no filter, that Yuuri wants to stay in this moment forever, where demons can’t touch him, and the nightmares are just dreams. Where he can forget, even for a moment, that his body has been used and violated. That less than two weeks ago, everything was different.

It’s something he will learn to live and deal with in time. It has to be. Because he can’t imagine the rest of his life with his head constantly breaking apart, only to be fit back together like the wrong pieces of a puzzle. It doesn’t feel like living at all. It feels more like limping, splintering, and falling down.

 _I will learn to live with this,_ Yuuri tells himself, and he thinks of hands holding him down, the floor rubbing his back raw.

Because If Yuuri doesn’t learn to live with it, he’ll go down, and he can’t guarantee that Viktor won’t go down with him. Subconsciously, he wonders if it’s all worth it, but then he looks at Viktor again, eyes closed with slumber, and he looks young and peaceful. _This,_ Yuuri understands, is worth it _._

 

He wakes up, and it’s light in the room and light outside, and he sees flashes of blue like the colour of the sky _that day._

And someone is touching his stomach. _Someone is touching his stomach._

For a second, Yuuri can’t even breathe. He lies there, gaping like a fish, too afraid to move the hand from his stomach. Too afraid to do anything but be still, completely frozen with his eyes blown wide.

The bed shifts, jostling his comatose body, and Viktor sits up. “What’s wrong?” Viktor asks, panicked, wiping the sleep from his eyes. “Yuuri, what’s wrong?”

“He’s touching me,” Yuuri cries, feeling wetness slide down his cheeks. “ _He’s touching me.”_ His voice is a stifled gasp, and he knows he sounds ridiculous. Knows he sounds delusional. But _he’s being touched._ And there are hands pressing down his wrists, a heavy body crushing his, and he’s being ground all over the floor. And _get out. Get out of my body. This is_ my _body._ Mine.

“No, he’s not.” The hand lifts from his stomach, but he still feels it there. Feels hands all over him, hurting him. “It’s just me,” Viktor says. “I promise, it's just me.”

Yuuri reaches out an arm, trying to grasp onto something to ground him to reality, and he finds himself with his palms flat against Viktor’s chest, taking in the fast beats of his heart.

“It’s just me,” Viktor repeats, clutching Yuuri’s hand tight against his body, the calm within a storm.

He has to repeat the same words over ten times before Yuuri believes him.

 

_Phichit: There are photos being released of you getting into an ambulance??? Message me please??? I’m worried?!?!?!?_

Yuuri stares at the message, thumbs poised over the keyboard on his phone, and stares some more, and _how is he supposed to respond to that?_

His heartbeat can be felt in his stomach, and in his throat, and in his entire body which has suddenly gone cold. He’s not surprised that there are pictures. After all, it happened just after the Grand Prix Finals, when reporters were still lurking. He is, however, surprised that they took so long to be released.

And even though he was preparing for the inevitable, the steady dread still builds, budding into a blossoming panic.

“Viktor,” Yuuri calls, perhaps a bit too quietly. But lately he hasn’t had the energy to be loud, or the energy to really be anything at all.  His bones are tired, and at 24, he feels old. It’s not an unfamiliar feeling. His achy body has always been a constant presence ever since he began competitive figure skating, but it’s worse now, coupled with his tired mind. It’s not like he had the healthiest mental state before, but it was nothing compared to this, and he doesn’t know how to handle it, doesn’t know how to stop the black from bleeding into the crevices of his brain.

Viktor pops into the room, Makkachin hot on his heels. His lips are pursed in concern, and he has two cups of tea in his hands, setting one down in front of Yuuri on the floor. “Is everything okay?”

Wordlessly, Yuuri hands Viktor his phone with Phichit’s message still on the screen, and goes to lie down on the bed, pressing his face into the pillow. The tea is left ignored, although his heart warms at the sentiment.

His breath stutters, and he feels his lungs give and squeeze, and _don’t cry, don’t cry, please don’t cry._

“God. The stupid reporters really have no respect for your—our—privacy,” Viktor sneers, and Yuuri can tell he’s mad. Really, Yuuri should probably be madder too, but he’s so _exhausted._ He doesn’t lift his head up to look at Viktor, and although it’s difficult, he nods into the pillow.

“I don’t know how to respond to him.” Yuuri fists the sheets, wanting to tear them, hoping that maybe it’ll take away some of the frustration. His hands are balled so tight that his nails are digging into his skin past the blankets, and he lets the physical pain distract him. Lets it flood through his senses, breathing into it.

“He’s your best friend, right?” Viktor sits next to Yuuri, carding a hesitant hand through his dark hair, untangling the knots. Yuuri doesn’t really respond, but apparently his silence is enough of one. “You can tell him if you want. Maybe it’ll feel good to talk to someone about it.”

“As in a friend rather than a professional?”

“Mmhmm,” Viktor hums, and his warm hand feels nice against Yuuri’s scalp. His body buzzes pleasantly, something he forgot he could feel, and he lets his muscles melt, the tenseness escaping in an exhale. Before Viktor pulls his hand away, he presses his lips dotingly on the top of Yuuri’s head. “I think there’s a difference between talking to someone you trust and someone you just met, da? You can talk to me. You can talk to Phichit. You can talk to your family and friends. We’re all here for you.”

 _Oh._ Yuuri really doesn’t know how to respond to that. His entire life, he’s gotten used to feeling like a burden. A burden to his coach, his family, his friends, and Viktor. And it’s weird to have people he can actually rely on. Logically, he knows that they’ve always been there, but it’s hard to let himself be able to lean on them. Viktor’s the first he was able to open up to, and Yuuri forgets that there are others too. Others who only want what’s best for him, and who want him to heal.

“Pass me my phone,” Yuuri says, and it comes out like a question because he still doesn’t know what to say to Phichit, but Viktor’s smile is so proud when he hands the device over that Yuuri knows it must be the right thing to do.

The bed shifts as Viktor stands up, giving room for Makkachin to jump on it, curling up against Yuuri’s body with a whine.

“Can you…” Yuuri swallows, watching as Viktor’s feet pause at the door. “Can you stay with me? I know I’ve been distant, but I just, I really don’t want to be alone right now.”

He can’t see Viktor’s face, so he doesn’t know what expression the older male is making. But he _can_ see how Viktor’s shoulder relaxes, and when he turns around, his eyes hold such a profound tenderness that Yuuri can’t even believe it’s for him.

“Of course,” Viktor mutters, already back on the bed, forcing Makkachin to move. Yuuri curls up his body, letting it fold naturally with Viktor’s, and he breathes. _Inhale. Exhale._

He can feel the tenseness returning to his body, and he wants to scream at his head because _this is Viktor._ It’s not his assaulter, and it’s not dangerous, but his body is screaming for him to run. It’s so infuriating, so much so that he can feel stupid tears prick the corners of his eyes. _Stupid, stupid. I’m so stupid._

Strong hands trace the vertebrae of Yuuri’s spine before resting on his shoulders, massaging out the tension. “It’s just me,” Viktor says. “You can tell me when you stop. You can tell me when it’s too much. I’ll understand. It’s just me, and I’m not going to hurt you, and I’ll stop when you tell me to, and I promise that I’ll never, never do anything to you if you tell me you don’t want it. You’re safe here.”

 _You’re safe here._ Maybe that’s what Yuuri needed to hear all along.

 

_Yuuri: Hey, Phichit._

_Phichit: Yuuri!!!! What happened?!_

_Yuuri: There was an incident. Viktor called the ambulance and I went to the hospital. I’m back in Hasetsu now._

_Phichit: Incident???!!! Explain._

_Yuuri: I was assaulted._

_Phichit: omg._

_Phichit: OMG._

_Phichit: Are you alright? Who was it? How bad was it?_

_Phichit: How badly are you injured?_

_Phichit: Do I need to fly over to Japan?_

_Phichit: ARE YOU OKAY?!?_

_Phichit: ANSWER ME PLEASE I NEED TO KNOW YOU’RE OKAY._

_Phichit: YUURI._

Yuuri’s phone is ringing, and he knows it’s Phichit. And he knows it’s because he stopped replying, and he has the phone clutched tight in his hands, but he’s too scared to pick up.

It’s such a menial task. All he has to do is tell Phichit what happened, and then reassure him that, “ _Yes, yes, I’m fine. Everything’s okay.”_ Although, that would be a lie, and he doesn’t know how low he’s sunk if he’s thinking about lying to his best friend. It’s not like he hasn’t done it before. It’s practically routine for him to tell every concerned friend and family member that, “ _Yes, everything’s fine. No need to worry. I’m okay.”_

His phone has stopped ringing once, and has started ringing again. And again and again and again, vibrating in Yuuri’s palm, and he’s shaking almost as hard as his phone is.

Makkachin’s head flops onto Yuuri’s back, which Yuuri gently eases off as he sits up, standing up from the bed and instead opting to sit on the floor where it’s easier to think. Makkachin follow him, sticking close to Yuuri as if sensing his distress, and Yuuri feels a brief, fleeting pang of pain as he remembers Vicchan, but it goes as quickly as it comes.

Sitting on the floor doesn’t clear his mind completely, but it’s less claustrophobic than the cage of blankets.

His finger hovers over the _accept call_ button, and he presses it with one eye closed before he can talk himself out of it. He sets the phone on the floor on speaker and buries his face into Makkachin’s soft fur, wondering why he’s so emotional over such a small thing. Wondering if he always found it so hard to talk to people.

 _Yes._ Yuuri knows it’s true. He keeps his heart behind brick walls that are only now coming down with the gentle and patient understanding of Viktor. He’s often been told that he’s a cold person, and he wonders how true that statement is. It’s not that he hates people. It’s just that he doesn’t know how to connect.

“Yuuri!” Phichit’s voice blasts through the speaker. “I’m so glad you picked up.”

The gratitude Yuuri feels bursts through him suddenly, and he has to choke back a sob of relief, getting a mouth full of Makkachin. Phichit doesn’t say, _“Why didn’t you pick up sooner?”_ Or, _“Took you long enough.”_ Both of which are perfectly acceptable for a situation like this. Instead, he says, _“I’m so_ glad _you picked up.”_

It’s pure, unconditional concern, and Yuuri doesn’t deserve it. He never has and never will.

“Sorry for not picking up sooner.” Yuuri finally lets Makkachin go so that Phichit can actually hear him.

He hears Phichit sigh through the phone, loud and fond. “You don’t have to apologize, you know. I just want to know how you’re holding up.”

“I’m…” _Okay_ is as the tip of his tongue, waiting to be spat on, but Yuuri hides it away. “I’m dealing,” he says instead.

“How did it even happen?” He can hear Phichit’s disquiet, and he wonders how, out of everyone he could’ve met in Detroit, he became friends with someone so _good._

“A guy knocked on my door in a hotel worker uniform. I don’t even know if he was actually a hotel worker, but I opened it thinking it was Viktor, and he walked in.”

“That’s so messed up.”

Yuuri stares at his hand, and feels himself shaking again, and he wonders if he should call for Viktor before it gets really bad. But Viktor’s helping out with dinner, and Yuuri promised before Viktor got out of the bed that he would be okay alone, so he doesn’t. “Yeah,” Yuuri murmurs, nibbling on his cracked, bottom lip, the metallic taste of blood coating the tip of his tongue. “He tackled me to the floor. And…yeah.”

“Did he…?”

It’s a silent question, but it weighs thousands of pounds, and Yuuri can feel his heartbeat pick up because Phichit someone understood the hidden implication that Yuuri didn’t even mean to imply. He can feel himself losing as his stomach lurches, threatening to release the contents of his stomach onto the floor. “What do you mean?” He forces himself to choke out.

“Yuuri.” It’s so soft. Phichit’s voice is so soft and Yuuri can’t breathe. “When you messaged me, you said that you were assaulted. What kind…” A hesitant breath, as afraid to know the answer as Yuuri is to say it. “What kind of assault do you mean?”

He focuses his gaze on a single corner of the room, desperately trying not to float away. _Thump, thump, thump._ His heart pounds against his ribcage, and he opens his mouth, forcing oxygen into his lungs. “I was raped.” He says it fast, barely loud enough to be heard probably, but it still echoes through the room. Through his head. Through his entire body.

It’s the first time he’s said it aloud since it happened. But that’s what happened, right? He was raped, and there’s no going back, and he’ll just have to hold himself together and keep living. Because that’s life. Terrible things happen, and it hurts like nothing’s ever hurt before. And he doesn’t know how to forget the feeling of that man on him, in him, damaging his skin and body and mind. But not saying it doesn’t make it less real. It still happened.

He hears Phichit’s rush of breath, and then, “Christ.” The sound of something solid hitting the floor, and a scramble, and, “I can’t. You—” And then a sob that startles Yuuri.

“Phichit, are you—”

“I’m so, so sorry.” There’s a sniffle as Phichit blows his nose. “I inferred, but I didn’t expect you to say it, and I was hoping so badly that I was wrong and,” a choked garble, “I’m so sorry.” There’s a long inhale, and a long exhale, and then, much more composed, “Do you want to talk about it?”

Does Yuuri want to talk about it? Thinking about it is enough to make him want to rip out his brain. Enough to make him want to scrub until he can’t feel the hands on him anymore. Thinking about it is enough to remind him how it still hurts sometimes to walk, to stand, and to sit, and how his bruises have yet to completely heal, yellow and green and ugly. So, “No. Not really. But thank you for the offer.” He knows he sounds detached, and frankly, he feels it too, but it’s the only way he can stop himself from crying. Makkachin has made a home on his lap, but Yuuri knows he has to stand up soon or it’ll hurt a lot more.

He manages to hold some light-hearted conversation with Phichit, promising to contact him again soon, and he hangs up, feeling accomplished, but also burnt out.

He pushes Makkachin off him as carefully as he can, and stands up. And it hurts, of course it does. The sharp pain shoots through him, and he winces, hoping that nothing’s bleeding again, and he realizes, belatedly, that the tears he was trying so hard to hold back are falling. Quietly, messily. He rubs his sleeves under her nose once it starts to run, and it’s gross and disgusting, and Yuuri doesn’t think he’ll ever actually feel clean again.

_Stop crying. Stop crying, stop crying, stop crying._

He has to sit back down, the wooden floor suddenly harder and more uncomfortable than before, and he draws his knees to his chest, burying his head between them. He clamps his hands to his ears to block out the noises because he _hates them._ Hates how terrified he is when there’s nothing to be terrified of. Hates how his lungs _don’t seem to work._

He breathes as deeply as he can, the stifled crying making it a lot harder as his breath stutters and spills. “Viktor,” he calls once he’s able to form any words at all. “Viktor.”

_Please come. I don’t want to be alone right now._

Makkachin whines, loud and long, walking a couple circles around Yuuri before running out of his room. Presumably, hopefully, to get Viktor.

_Good dog._

Yuuri reminds himself to get Makkachin a treat once Viktor rushes in, the dog leading.

“Breathe,” is the first thing Viktor says, already on the floor next to Yuuri.

“Mmm. ‘m trying.” His speech is garbled with snot, and paired with his soft accent, it’s a wonder Viktor can even understand him.

Viktor’s not great at comforting people, but he’s gotten better at comforting _Yuuri._ Understanding how Yuuri works over time, just like how Yuuri understand more of Viktor every day. “Remember that time you hit your face onto the side of the rink? I thought for sure that you broke your nose for a second. Or that time when you lost the bag of peanuts, and went completely nuts looking for it. And remember when Phichit thought we were married?”

Yuuri laughs wetly, forced, but it’s a laugh none the less. With care, Viktor gets Yuuri to lift his head out from between his legs and holds a tissue over his nose. Yuuri blows, feeling his congestion clear and the ringing in his ears subside. He knows what Viktor’s trying to do, and it’s sweet and somehow effective.

The cup of tea is still on the floor where Yuuri left it earlier, and Viktor picks it up, bringing it to Yuuri’s dry lips. He drinks it greedily, and although the tea has gone cold, it’s still nice.

“Breathe with me, alright?”

Yuuri does. He inhales with Viktor and exhales with Viktor until his chest gets so tight he chokes, squeezing his eyes shut as his hands curl, nails digging into the floor.

_Hands, with bruising force, touching his body. Being torn apart. Help! Help, someone, please._

“I’m going to touch you, alright?” Viktor’s hand is held up so Yuuri can see them, and Yuuri nods.

_Inside him. Inside him, destroying everything. His body, thrown carelessly around, pushed into the hard floor. Bruises marking his arms, his legs, his stomach, his back. His face. Teeth, biting into his skin as Yuuri screams and screams and screams._

A hand touching Yuuri’s hand, uncurling them from the floor, holding them gently. So soft it’s barely a touch at all. There’s a small squeeze, a thumb rolling over the ring before letting his hand drop back down, this time uncurled.

 _Something that tastes like sweat in his mouth, mingling with his drool, shoved so far back that he’s retching, choking on the thick fabric. Tongue numb and jaw aching. The stench is nauseating, and_ get it out. _Get it out! Please. Pleasepleasepleaseplease. No more. No more no more can’t take any more._

Long fingers plucking off his glasses, setting them to the floor. Knuckles feathery against his skin, rubbing out the tightness around his eyes, running over his brow bone, massaging out the ache. Slowly, the ringing in his ears ceases completely, and all he can hear is the steadiness of Viktor’s breath. The consistency of his motions, smoothing out the creases of Yuuri’s worries.

_Weight, crushing him._

Gently, arms wrap around him, holding him with care and love and everything that Yuuri craves and needs and is scared to have. He feels Viktor’s lips against his cheeks, dryer than usual, but Viktor’s lips all the same.

“Can you breathe now?”

Yuuri opens his eyes, feels his lungs finally, _finally_ expand, and manages to meet Viktor’s gaze. “I can.”  

 

Phichit isn’t the only one who messages Yuuri. In fact, his phone is blowing up with so many notifications that he turns it off without looking at any of them. It’s not that he doesn’t appreciate their concern. It’s just that it’s a bit overwhelming, and he doesn’t really know how to respond.

“They’re so worried that they’re messaging _me_ now,” Viktor informs as they finish the last of the packing.

“Oh.” He feels almost ashamed, as if he’s letting his friends down.

“I can respond for you. Just tell me what to say.”

But that’s the problem, isn’t it? Yuuri has no idea what to say to placate them. No clue how to make the truth sound less horrible than it is.

 _Oh,_ he’s blanking out again, twisting and turning words inside his head, trying to find a way to rearrange them so that he can get the point across.

“I’ll just let them know that you’re alive. How’s about that?” Viktor’s careful with his words, talking slowly because he notices. Of course he does. He notices that Yuuri’s not exactly there in the moment, and that all Yuuri can do is nod in agreement. For now, it will have to be enough.

“Distract me,” Yuuri says, curling into himself. And he’s withdrawing, even though he’s trying his best not to because when he gets like this, it’s hard to bring him back out.

“Yurio’s the most worried out of all of them, I think. He’s been blowing up my phone, wondering why you’re not responding.” Viktor’s tone is light-hearted, upbeat, and pleasant to listen to. Yuuri lets his voice draw him in, and he absorbs the words, forcing himself not to duck his head away.

“Can you tell him I’m fine?”

Viktor shoot him a look. “But _are_ you?”

Swallowing, Yuuri shakes his head. “Never mind.” It’s too quiet. Barely a wheeze. “Don’t tell him I’m fine. Just say that something happened and I’m dealing with it.”

“Hmmm,” Viktor frowns, already texting. “Alright. I guess that’s all he’s getting for now.”

It’s not a good response, and probably poses more questions than it answers, but Yuuri’s hurting and tired, and he doesn’t want to deal with people. He doesn’t even want to deal with himself.

“Hungry?” Viktor asks after a beat too long of silence.

“No.”

“You have to eat.”

“I know.” But his stomach is crawling. Always, always crawling, and it feels like if he tries to force something down, it’ll come right back up. Besides, it’ll probably just taste like dirty socks anyway.

He wiggles his toes, staring at the bruises on his feet. He hasn’t been allowed to do any jumps lately. _“You’re healing,”_ Viktor had said. But Yuuri feels like he’ll be healing forever, and then what happens? When is he going to be cleared to do jumps? It’s not like he’s extremely injured in the physical sense. Really, logically speaking, jumps shouldn’t be a problem. It’ll hurt a little, but at this point, doesn’t everything?

“Yurio’s going to be there are the airport tomorrow. He says he wants to see you.”

Yuuri looks up, feels his lips tugging, and laughs a little sadly. “Did he really?”

Reaching out and tucking a stray strand of Yuuri’s hair behind his ears, Viktor smiles warmly. “Obviously not in those words. But I translated. I speak fluent Yurio, after all.”

“How many languages does that make?”

“Well, including Russian, English, and French, that’s four fluent languages.”

Yuuri’s lips tug a little more, and his laugh is a little less sad this time. He misses this. Joking around with Viktor. “My fiancé sure is talented.”

He leans his head on Viktor’s shoulder, forces himself not to tense, and then relaxes. Viktor doesn’t try to touch him any more, doesn’t shift and doesn’t move. Instead, he hums a slow, sweet song, breath tickling Yuuri’s ear, calming the restlessness stirring in Yuuri’s body.

The humming pauses, and Viktor sighs, although it sounds like a sigh of contentment. “One day, I’ll be fluent in Japanese too.”

There’s a flutter in Yuuri’s chest, building steadily, and has been building since the moment Viktor waltzed into his life. But he feels it profoundly in that moment, and he presses his hand to his heart. There’s someone next to him who is willing to learn a new language for him, who is willing to stay by him, even when things aren’t practical. Someone who is patient and kind, and who tries to understand how Yuuri’s brain works. And that is more than enough.

 

Against Yuuri’s better judgment, he ends up googling himself, something Viktor forbade him from doing.

**_“Katsuki Yuuri, Japan’s Ace, Pulls Out of Nationals after Injury?”_ **

**_“Katsuki Yuuri Injured?”_ **

**_“Figure Skater Katsuki Yuuri Rushed to Hospital in Ambulance. Photos Attached.”_ **

**_“Barcelona, a Place of Tragedy for Yuuri Katsuki, Grand Prix Silver Medalist?”_ **

He turns away from the laptop and crawls into bed, covering his entire body with blankets until he feels like he’s drowning in them.

When Viktor comes in later, he glances at the open laptop, glances back at Yuuri and sighs. “Are you bothered that you’re pulling out of Nationals?”

There’s a moment of silence as Yuuri gathers his thoughts. Really, he’s more bothered that Viktor’s not competing in the Russian Nationals, which means not competing in Worlds, opting to take care of him instead. “No.”

“You think you’re holding me back.” It’s not a question, so Yuuri doesn’t grace it with an answer. Viktor sighs again, taking off his shirt and pants before crawling in with Yuuri. “You’re not. Your health is the most important thing to me right now. Competing can wait, and leaving you isn’t even an option. I don’t care about Nationals or Worlds. You need time to heal.” He speaks with a sense of urgency, and Yuuri finds himself nodding along.

“Alright.” And really, Yuuri’s just tired, and he wants the internet to mind its own business. “Okay.”

They don’t have any skin touching each other, but Yuuri can feel Viktor’s body heat, and he lets it thaw his freezing limbs and stiff joints.

He doesn’t sleep a wink.

 

It’s not going to be a good day. Yuuri knows that the moment dawn arrives, licking at his bloody lips. His skin is stretched too tight, and everything is sharp, bright, and painful. When Viktor tries to touch him, he flinches.

He takes a shower, guilt laden and tired, and scrubs himself until his skin breaks. When he gets out, he forgets to avoid his gaze from the mirror, and he _sees._

The marks on his wrists and body are mellowing out, barely visible, and his back doesn’t sting as much, so _why does he still feel it?_

He stares at his body, and maybe he’s lost weight, or maybe it’s just the way he carries himself now. The circles under his eyes are so dark they look like bruises. Darker than they’ve ever been in his entire life, and that’s really a feat because he’s gone an entire week without sleeping before.

He’s been thinking too much and sleeping too little, and Viktor tries and tries and tries, and Yuuri keeps pulling away because he’s _terrified._

 

“Talk to me. What’s wrong?” Viktor’s voice is steeped in desperation, something that Yuuri doesn’t hear very often. He looks tired and weary, bags under his eyes almost as dark as Yuuri’s, standing out against pale skin.

 _It’s my fault,_ Yuuri thinks, crumbling apart. And then a thought, darker than anything he’s ever thought before, spinning to the surface so violently that it surprises him, _maybe I should just…disappear._

He still has so much left to accomplish. Compete, win gold, get married, learn, grow, _become._ There’s no way. He doesn’t even want to die, not really, but the thoughts are there and he’s a _burden, burden, burden_ and everything hurts. But how can he even think that? And right in front of Viktor too, the other man starring holes into his mind.

Self-contempt curls in Yuuri’s stomach, but that’s nothing new. He hasn’t loved himself a single day in his life before Viktor came along. But now he hates himself more than ever.

And his chest creaks and aches, and he wants to tell Viktor what’s going on in his head, desperately, desperately, but, _“I can’t.”_ It comes out a sob, like many other things as of late, and when Viktor reaches out a hand again, Yuuri runs.

 

He goes to the Ice Castle, warms up (not enough. It’s never enough lately), tries a triple toe loop, and falls.

 

The ice is cold, and Yuuri lies on it, staring across from him at the wall, and wonders why he’s been looking down so often lately.

 

Viktor finds him there, not even ten minutes later, and he has sad, sad eyes. _I made him sad,_ Yuuri thinks, feeling a tear roll out the corner of his left eye, falling onto the ice. He blinks. His eyes are still too dry, and another tear falls.

“You’re not supposed to be practicing jumps.”

Yuuri looks at Viktor more carefully, and it’s not just sadness in his eyes, but disappointment as well. “I wasn’t,” he lies.

But Viktor just gives him that look, and _who’s Yuuri even trying to fool?_

Yuuri gets up on shaking arms, and Viktor doesn’t try to help, although he looks like he wants to. But Yuuri’s glad because if Viktor tries to touch him again, he might fall apart.

 

The airport is too crowded, and Yuuri feels too small, swallowed by the hustle. He tries not to give into his panic and follows Viktor, not daring to touch anyone. Viktor keeps a careful pace the entire time, looking back every two seconds to make sure Yuuri’s following, and Yuuri doesn’t miss the twitch in his hand.

The matching rings are bright, almost taunting, and Yuuri knows Viktor wants to hold his hand, wants to see the rings together. Wants some sort of contact between them.

But it’s not a good day. It’s a really, really bad day. And as much as Viktor wants contact, he’s also not going to force Yuuri. The knowledge calms him slightly, giving him room to breathe, which is all Yuuri can ask for.

 _Thank you,_ he says in his mind as they board the plane together. Things would be so much easier if telepathy was real.

 

It still hurts to sit for too long.

 

They arrive on schedule, and outside, the ground is wet and glistening. A different world, cold and crisp. Russia is as beautiful as it is terrifying.

Yuri Plisetsky sees them before they see him, and he rushes towards them, pushing through the crowd. Mila and Georgi stand back, watching, and even further back, a disgruntled Yakov stands and waits, tapping a foot impatiently into the floor.

“Oi, stupid pork cutlet bowl. Why have you been ignoring everyone? We’ve been trying to contact you for ages, and all Viktor tells us is that something happened and that you’re _‘dealing with it_.’ What does that even mean?” Yuri is, notably, a bit angry. But there’s a detectable concern that Yuuri might’ve missed when they first met, but he certainly picks up on it now.

He doesn’t even have the decency to look Yuri in the eyes, too ashamed. “Sorry,” he mutters. If he was okay today, Viktor would’ve taken his hand reassuringly. But he’s not okay, and contact is not okay, and now everything’s _not okay._

Yuri stares at Yuuri, mouth opening and closing, before grabbing his hand. Yuuri flinches, heavy and violent, but Yuri doesn’t let go.

A sound escapes Viktor, almost like a warning, but before he can get a single word out, Yuri’s already talking. “You’re not going to quit, are you?” It’s rushed, and harsh. All too frantic. “You dropped out of Worlds because of an injury, right? You’re going to keep skating, aren’t you?”

A familiar darkness creeps up, from the bottom of Yuuri’s spine to the top, racking his body in a shiver. Gently, he pries his hands out of Yuri’s, hating the physical contact, and smiles as softly as he can. “Of course,” he says quietly, not looking up. “I’m in Russia to train, am I not?” And he’s not lying. He has every intention to continue skating. After all, Viktor’s competing now too. But it’s hard. Yuuri’s not the same anymore, and he has no idea what he’s doing.

He’s fragile, even more so than before. Viktor would disagree, probably passionately too, but Yuuri knows the truth. He’s fragile, and splintering, and he can still feel those _hands_ on him, all over his body. Touching him and touching him and _hurting him and—_

“Why were you in the hospital even? And an ambulance too? That’s pretty extreme.”

“Yurio.” Viktor’s tone holds all sorts of warnings, but Yuuri shakes his head at him as a warning of his own.

“I’m fine now. It was nothing,” Yuuri offers, hoping it’s enough.

It’s not.

“I don’t buy that shit for a second.” Yuri’s really getting worked up now, and Yuuri has no idea how to calm him down, so he trains his eyes on the floor, staring at one section, convincing himself that if he blinks enough, he won’t need to cry. Somehow, Yuri senses this and softens his voice. “You look like shit.” And then, a bit harsher, “You’re limping, and your face looks like it was pretty recently bruised, and you’re thinner.”

If even Yuri noticed, Yuuri must be worse off than he originally thought. Apparently Viktor thinks so too because he grimaces, hands clenching at his sides, and _oh no._ He’s practically radiating guilt. Guilt that has no place of being there.

There are so many people around, and Yuuri really, _really_ hates crowds, and he just wants to leave the airport. Wants to leave it so badly that he finally looks up, straight into Yuri Plisetsky’s eyes, and compromises. “I’ll tell you everything you want to know later, okay? Let’s just. Can we please leave?”

“No! You’re going to tell me right here, right now what the fu—”

“Yurio.” Viktor again, reprimanding and cutting. “Yuuri’s tired. Let’s go back first, and then we can talk.” There’s no room for arguments. Viktor’s serious, and Yuuri’s just trying not to break down, and Yuri stops talking, realizes the situation, and nods stiffly.

Drawing in a deep breath, Yuuri stumbles, tripping over nothing, and feels oddly numb. Detached and floating, light-headed. But mostly, he just feels alone.

Viktor asks a silent question, hand stretched out, and Yuuri feels his own fingers twitch. He thinks of Viktor’s expression of guilt, and how tired he looked before they got on the plane, and, “Okay,” he breathes, only loud enough for Viktor to hear. If he can’t do it for himself, at least he can do it for Viktor.

Their hands connect, and warmth floods through him, and _maybe I’m doing this for myself after all._

Yuri invites himself over to Viktor’s apartment, flops onto the couch, and snarls at Yuuri. “Explain.”

So Yuuri does.

 

It’s strange. He doesn’t know whether to filter his words because Yuri’s only fifteen, or to just say it bluntly because Yuri knows language that no fifteen year old should know.

_But this isn’t the same as shouting out some swear words. This is something horrible that happened that fifteen year olds shouldn’t have to know about. That no one should have to know about. Something that should never have happened in the first place._

But it’s not Yuuri’s job to shelter the younger Russian from the world, even though he wants to. “I was raped.” He says it like it is, and Yuri blanches.

Viktor blanches too, surprised by the transparency, but he recovers much faster, letting Yuuri squeeze his hands tighter.

There’s silence, broken only by Yuuri’s unsteady breathing and Viktor’s soft mutters of support.

“What?” It’s breathed out. A tone Yuuri’s never heard the young Russian use before. “What?” He sounds genuinely angry, hands clenching into the sofa before standing up, restless. He stomps around, stomps right up to Yuuri and Viktor, then sits back on the couch. “Which fucker?” He’s shaking, and seething, and he’s coiled so tight that he’s trembling. “Which fucker touched you?”

He seems surprised when Yuuri smiles, gentle and kind as he lets go of Viktor’s hand and takes Yuri’s instead, steadying the trembling even though his hands are shaking too. For a different reason, but shaking all the same. “I am touched,” he tells Yuri honestly, “But you don’t have to get worked up for me.”

And he meant what he said. Yuuri’s touched—beyond touched, and he realizes how lucky he is. He has the steady, consistent comfort of Viktor, he has the love of his parents and sister, he has the support of Phichit, and now, he also has the rage of Yuri. This, Yuuri realizes, is his family. 

 

It’s their second week in Russia, and Yuuri’s been cleared for jumps. He doesn’t talk much to the other skaters, but when he does, they’re all kind.

Not everyone knows what happened, but a lot of them do. Yuuri doesn’t bother hiding it. It happened, after all.

He notices the lingering gazes, how sometimes people stray a little closer, as if protecting him. He notices how Viktor never lets him leave the house alone. He notices these little things, and he’s grateful.

When he wakes up, breathless, fighting down a scream, Viktor’s always there. When he falls onto the ice, too mentally exhausted to get back up, there are strong pairs of arms. More than one pair. Multiple, reaching out to pick him back up.

It’s not perfect. It’ll never be perfect, but that’s alright.

 

“We might never have sex again,” Yuuri brings up, dry tears staining his cheeks.

“That’s okay,” Viktor says. “I don’t care about that.”

 _But don’t you?_ Yuuri wants to scream. He doesn’t. Instead, he buries his head into the blankets and pretends to sleep.

 

“I really don’t care if we never have sex again, you know?” They are cooking together, and when Viktor speaks, Yuuri almost drops the knife. “If one day, you want to, that’s alright. If you never want to again, that’s alright too. Being with you like this is more than enough.”

Yuuri doesn’t believe him completely, not really. But then Viktor’s reaching up and wiping away his tears and snot, and he collapses into Viktor’s chest, and hopes that one day he will.

 

In the dim lighting of the bedroom in the evening, Yuuri admits with a whisper, “I once thought of killing myself.”

He feels Viktor tense next to him, and it’s quiet for a while, until he hears a sob piercing through silence, sudden and violent. And Viktor’s _crying._ Not pretty, nice tears, but ugly and loud. His entire body shaking, racking with hiccups, and then Yuuri’s gathered against a warm chest, skin against skin, being squeezed so tightly that he loses his breath.

He expects the sudden touch to scare him, and it seems that Viktor does too because he’s already pulling away, choking out a wet apology that Yuuri shoots down and, “It’s okay,” Yuuri says, pressing deeper into Viktor’s chest, wanting to be held.

And he’s not scared at all. Instead, he feels safe. Secure. _Loved._

“Please don’t kill yourself,” Viktor says a couple minutes later after he’s calmed down.

“How can I?” He’s looking up at Viktor through his eyelashes, more awake than he’s been for a long time. “I’ve never felt the greater need to _live_.”

 

He wakes up in strong arms, Viktor pressed tight against his side, and he stares at the ceiling. There is more sunlight in this room than his entire house in Hasetsu combined. The sky is clear outside, and it’s beautiful. It’s definitely not a day to be spent in bed.

When he turns over, it’s to Viktor’s eyes, blue and content, blinking at Yuuri.  

He doesn’t forget what happened. He never will. But his fractured mind is healing, and the hands that touched him once don’t hurt him nearly as much as they used to.

They make breakfast together, and it tastes sweet and syrupy. There’s no taste of dirty socks to be found.

“Let’s go skating,” Yuuri says as they leave the house, looking up at Viktor’s eyes, up at the sky, and up at everything because he’s so sick of looking down. And when Viktor kisses him, he melts, joining their hands together as their rings glint gold, catching the sunlight.

**Author's Note:**

> Yes, they do eventually find the perpetrator, and yes, they do go to court (and it's messy and long, but Yuuri did do a rape kit so it could've been a lot messier and longer if he didn't). The perpetrator is sentenced to 10 years, even though Viktor wants him sentenced for life (but sadly, life doesn't always work like that. I know, Viktor. I want him sentenced for life too). And yes, Yuuri does get a therapist who is able to speak Japanese, although it takes nearly half a year because they had to wait for an open spot.  
> I chose not to write these scenes because, well, it doesn't fit with the flow and tone of the story, but just in case any of you were wondering about these loose ends, hopefully I've tied it up.


End file.
